


Rite of Passage

by thisnthat



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Character Growth, Disaster gay, F/F, Fluff and Crack, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Suggestive Themes, crawling in the walls is the ultimate work out, functional lesbian, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-15 03:56:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15404412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisnthat/pseuds/thisnthat
Summary: Upon discovering Brahms Heelshire is a full-grown living man, Greta and her girlfriend, Mallory, decide to stick around to help Brahms learn how to function as an adult while they continue cashing in on those hefty paychecks from the Heelshire estate.





	1. He Needs Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [incelbrahms](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=incelbrahms).



> This is my first real foray into fanfic so bear with me for a couple chapters while i figure out how sexy or not i want it to be. my writing style is also going to change a lot as i try to move away from script-writing into a more novel-esque style.  
> i'll be updating.. let's play it safe.. every other day so i have time to do my own edits. i'll include in future notes if i need more time or not. i'll also be adding tags as the chapters go along. aaaaaand age everyone down a bit, Greta n Mal are 27-ish and Brahms is somewhere between 28-30, but keeping it set in 2016-18ish.  
> A note for Mallory: she is a full replacement for Malcolm. whole movie is exactly the same keep that lore, malcolm is just bearable now.   
> NEW EDIT: malcom now mallory never has the conversation with greta about emily.

Brahms hunches over Cole’s lifeless form, blood still spurting from the side of his neck coating Brahms’ mask and clothes. Brahms jumps from the ground in a feral lunge toward Greta.

“No you don’t,” Mallory trips Brahms sending him crashing to the ground face first.

The sound of his mask breaking is followed by a loud “Fuck!” as he lies on the floor. Mallory grabs Greta’s hand, dragging her out of the room.

“Mal wait,” Greta says, pulling Mal back.

Mal stares at her in shock as Greta slowly approaches Brahms. He quietly moans in pain, writhing on the ground in a pathetic display.

“Hey, big guy,” Greta says, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.

He looks up at her, tears and blood covering his already disfigured face. Killing is so easy for him, but the one time he tries to reach out to another person he ends up a mess on the ground. Defeat is a new pain.

“Don’t look at me,” he whines, burying his face in his cardigan sleeves.

“There you have it. Let’s go,” Mal says.

“No! We can’t just leave him. He’s…” Greta pauses. 

She and Mal watch as Brahms sits up. He continues sniffling, removing the mask from his face and wiping away the blood, snot, and tears. Mal rolls her eyes as Greta sits next to him rubbing his back in large, comforting circles.  
Greta explained it all to Mallory before: Cole’s abuse, the loss of her unborn child, her hope that Brahms’ ghost would be a second chance. Greta may be caught up in her own head ignoring that ghost boy is now live man, but Mal doesn’t want to lose her. Besides, the manor is a nice enough place to stay and the job is still paying Greta well. But what if he tries to hurt Greta next…

“He did kill Cole for us, I guess.” Mal sighs.

“Yeah, see! Brahms is a good boy,” Greta coos.

Brahms lifts his head at the praise, smiling wide.

“You’re not scared of me?” He asks in his forced child-like voice.

“Of course not,” Greta responds.

“Creeped out maybe,” Mal says.

Greta shushes her.

“You protected me, just like I promised to protect you,” Greta continues.

Brahms smiles at Greta, holding her free hand in both of his. He glances over at Mal, waiting for her to compliment him as well. She crosses her arms, inconvenienced by the whole ordeal.

“Please, Mal. You know how much he means to me, even if he isn’t what we thought. We have to help him,” Greta says.

“You can’t be serious,” Mal groans.

Greta and Brahms continue watching her, Greta pleading and Brahms furious. He would love nothing more than to get rid of Mal, permanently, ever since her and Greta started dating. The idea of a simple grocery girl being with his Greta sends his blood boiling.

“He needs us,” Greta says. 

“I’ll support you, Greta, but I’m not sticking around with this man-child,” Mal says.

Brahms howls, springing to his feet and charging her. Greta gasps, yelling for him to be a good boy. Mal braces herself and locks arms with Brahms like Olympic wrestlers, except both are furiously trying to kill each other.

“Stop it you two!” Greta yells, reaching to grab Brahms shoulder.

He snaps back at her like a rabid dog, fixating his gaze back on Mal.

“Let’s dance,” Mal taunts, moving suddenly to let Brahms slam into the wall.

Greta grabs the fire poker that had been dropped during the struggle with Cole and swats Brahms’ back as he attempts to charge Mal again. He yelps in pain, turning on Greta. He whines in confusion, rubbing his back and staring at Greta.

“Why?” he asks, still as child-like as ever.

Greta mouths an apology to him then jumps in front of Mal, interrupting her charge toward Brahms.

“I promised to take care of one child, not two,” Greta scolds.

Mal relaxes, crossing her arms again. Now’s not the time to push the issue. Brahms slumps over to the sofa pleased that Greta defended him, but hurt by her strike nonetheless. A short truce is agreed upon.

“Okay,” she starts, “No time for pouting. We have to do something about the body.”

Brahms sticks his tongue out at Mal, “If Mallory is so tough then she can do it!”

“No, please! Show us what a big strong man you are,” Mal taunts back.

Brahms stands up, bristling at her deriding his masculinity. 

“Enough,” Greta interrupts, “Brahms, you made the mess so you deal with the body. Mal, you and I will clean up the rest.”

Mal sighs and goes to the kitchen to look for cleaning supplies. Brahms stomps his foot defiantly.

“I don’t want to bury the body,” he cries.

Greta stares at him as if he just told the worst joke she’d ever heard. He really is a full-grown man-child. Maybe Mal was right. Maybe she’s in way over her head. Who does she think she is to try to take care of a deranged murderer? Who knows what he’s capable of?  
No. She shakes her head. He’ll adapt quick. He needs structure, that’s all.

“Brahms, you’re going to have to clean up after yourself from now on,” Greta says firmly.

“And stop using that baby-voice you freak,” Mal calls from the other room.

“I’ll kill you next,” Brahms retorts in a deep, gruff voice as he lifts the body over his shoulder.

Greta shakes her head wearily at the antics of her love and her now living ward. 

“One step at a time,” Greta sighs.

~

Brahms cleans up in the bathroom with Greta’s help while Mal runs a load of laundry downstairs. He winces in pain each time she rubs an alcohol swab over his many cuts. Greta said she would stay, but with Mal around Brahms can’t be too certain she’ll keep her promise.

“There you go, handsome man,” Greta says, applying a final bandage to Brahms.

The undamaged side of his face blushes a deep pink. He reaches to touch his burn scars, running the entire length of the right side of his face down to his shoulder. He stares at himself in the mirror, noticing how much he hunches even when seated to appear smaller, less terrifying. Greta hasn’t mentioned the scars at all much to his surprise. He must not look as monstrous as Mummy and Daddy had always insisted. Hope wells within his chest. This is his chance for a new family, a better one.  
He whispers his thanks in his child voice.

“One more time?” Greta asks.

“Thanks,” he says in his normal, masculine tone. 

“You’re welcome,” Greta smiles. “Now let’s find you something to sleep in.”

They walk down the hallway to meet Mal, already standing by the open door of his old bedroom.

“Maybe you can stay in the walls one more night,” Mal says.

The three of them stand in Brahms’ childhood bedroom staring down at his child-sized bed. At 6’3” there’s no way he will sleep comfortably, if he can even fit. The shelves lined with toys add another layer of creepiness to the already uncomfortable situation. 

“Or we could..”

“No,” Mal and Greta interrupt him in unison.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “Can I still get my goodnight kiss?” he asks Greta.

Greta sighs. _One step at a time_ , she reminds herself.

“Come here then,” she stands on her tiptoes and clings to his biceps for support to give him a quick peck on his left cheek.

Brahms blushes again. He hasn’t been kissed by anyone before. Not that he can remember at least. He leans in for another, but Greta gently pats his arms and pulls away.

“Alright, bed time everyone, let’s go,” she says.

Brahms continues smiling; the spark in his eyes indicating how happy he is that she chose to stay with him. Greta smiles back shyly as Mal guides her out to their bedroom. _Tomorrow the real fun begins_ , they each think quietly to themselves.


	2. Show and Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greta spends some one-on-one time with Brahms to get to know him. Mal and Brahms still want each other dead.

Mal finishes preparing breakfast for the three of them, giving Greta a chance to relax with her morning tea. Brahms hasn’t yet made an appearance, but the promise of food will no doubt draw him from his lair soon. 

“I’ll go call for him,” Greta says.

“No, I got it,” Mal responds.

She knocks her fist harshly against the kitchen walls in a quick rhythm. 

“Breakfast!” She yells.

Brahms bursts from the secret panel in the kitchen where he had been listening the whole time; annoyed by the sudden loud noise and realization that Mal knew he had been hiding there. He takes his usual seat at the head of the table while Mal sits across from Greta. The two women pause, watching Brahms devour the freshly made food like a wild animal. Greta holds a hand to her forehead in realization. 

“Oh my God, I never put leftovers in the freezer for you,” she says.

Mal leans in wide-eyed and grinning toward Greta then looks over at Brahms.

“Have you been eating out of the garbage?” Mal howls in laughter.

Brahms winces. That is the one rule he could never make Greta follow. While many interactions are still foreign to him, he knows how disgusting it is to rifle through trash. 

“And you’ve seen everything through the walls, haven’t you?” she asks.

Brahms stops eating as he notices Mal’s smile turn to a furious glare. He swallows painfully before answering.

“Yes,” he says.

“That’s it,” Mal says, pushing away from the table.

He reacts immediately, meeting her challenge. Greta reaches across the table to keep them separate as they posture. 

“Easy, he didn’t know any better,” Greta says.

“He’s like 30 years old!” Mal yells.

“Mal, why don’t you head to work? I’ll see what I can do here one-on-one,” she responds.

Brahms fails to hide his joy at the idea of Mal leaving Greta and him to spend the day together, relaxing into Greta’s still outstretched hand.

“And leave you alone with this?” Mal gestures at Brahms.

“We both know I’ll be fine,” Greta says.

Mal holds her stare for a moment longer then backs down.

“Alright. I’ll be back tonight though, so don’t try anything,” Mal blows Greta a kiss then turns to Brahms. She points at her eyes then jabs her fingers toward him in warning. Greta catches the kiss then turns to Brahms.

“Brahms, say goodbye to Mal,” she commands.

Brahms grins a wide, toothy grin.  
“Bye-bye, Mal,” he taunts in his child-like voice.

~

Greta sits in the music room at the desk trying to revise Brahms’ lessons to be more age-appropriate. Brahms sits beside her in a chair he pulled over from across the room, eagerly watching her face. She writes quickly, her brow furrowed as she struggles to piece together all the things he has missed out on over the years. _How do I even begin to explain the world to him?_ Brahms notices her stop writing, lost in her thoughts.

“What is it, pretty Greta?” he asks.

“Nothing. It’s just... You’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I think?” she stops, “I need to know more about you, the real Brahms, before we can start to fill in the gaps.”

Brahms perks up immediately. A woman showing genuine interest in him is a first and he is more than willing to comply. He grabs her hands, lifting her from her seat and guiding her to one of the secret panels in the wall.  
The inside of the walls are pitch black. Greta clings to Brahms’ hand as he leads her through the winding pathways and up to his hidden lair. A faint light outlines a door, which Brahms pushes open to reveal their destination. Knickknacks, craft projects, books, and other debris litter the room. Posters and magazine clippings line the walls along with art he no doubt made himself. What strikes Greta the most, however, are the many taxidermy animals. 

Especially the rats.

Brahms busies himself, gathering his most treasured objects to share with Greta while she continues scanning the room. She can’t help but notice the rats seem to be consistently posed in odd ways and dressed in handcrafted clothes, as if certain groups are acting out scenes from old books. 

“What’s with the rats?” she asks.

“Those are my friends,” he says as if the answer was obvious.

“Oh, okay,” she says, slightly tense, “and do they talk to you?”

Brahms stops moving. He slowly places the items in his hands onto his desk before facing Greta. He approaches her, only stopping an inch away from her. With his back extended to its full height he towers over her, her head just barely at his shoulders. He grips her arms firmly, holding her steady. Their eyes meet as he watches her carefully for a reaction. Personal space never seems to be discussed in any of his books. Nor how to have a serious conversation with another person.

“I’m not crazy,” he says.

Greta stutters out a response as Brahms tightens his grip. She looks away, tense under his hands.

“I know,” she says.

His eyes narrow. He searches her face trying to understand why she would think such a thing about him. Why is she so afraid of him now? _Maybe she’s scared of animals?_

“Greta, they’re just rats,” he says.

A sigh of relief escapes Greta as she begins to piece together his actions. _He has no idea how to talk to people._ She gently lifts his hands off her and places them at his sides. With a quick step back she fully regains her confidence.

“You can tell me that without grabbing me,” she says.

Brahms tilts his head to the side. 

“You don’t have to be right up on someone to talk to them,” she continues, hoping he’ll get the idea.

His eyes glaze over, deep in thought as he nods. After a moment of silent reflection he returns his piercing gaze to her.

“Okay. But you have to sit next to me for this,” he says, scooping up all his favorite items and carrying them to the bed.

He scoots his blankets away and taps the open spot next to him for Greta to sit. She sits, hoping his treasures aren’t any creepier than the rat theatre. 

He starts with a handful of his favorite books. They’re worn from constant use, some of them barely attached to their spines anymore. Greta flips through the pages of a large poetry volume full of his favorites. Countless pages are dog-eared and covered with notes and underlines. He definitely has time.

“I would have shown you my mask and told you all about it,” he says, “but now that it and the doll are broken I’ll have to show you the next best thing.”

He places a large sketchbook in her hands, but stops her from opening it. 

“I’ll flip through it with you, a lot of it is embarrassing,” he blushes.

“I don’t mind,” Greta smiles.

The date on the first page puts it at only a year ago. A quick peak up at his desk reveals a mountain of sketchbooks she guesses from his whole life in the walls. Page after page is filled with sketches of plants and animals with notes all along the edges. The detail is remarkable. Years of practice clearly show in each line. Some pages are more abstract, almost resembling a tantrum in pencil.   
He takes his time flipping through, describing each piece in detail. His favorite part of drawing them, if they turned out how he wanted, why he decided to draw whatever he did that day. Near the halfway point they land on a page full of nude self-portraits.   
Brahms huffs and quickly shuts the sketchbook. Greta rubs his back reassuringly. 

“You don’t have to show me all your art, but I want you to know nude portraits are an important part of being an artist,” she says.

“How do you mean?” he asks.

“Every artist I know has done nude drawing classes, where one person models and everyone else sketches them. It’s a great way to learn,” she says.

Brahms furrows his brow. He struggles to grasp that what he had been doing, at least with his art, had been normal this whole time. A hint of anger in his eyes is quickly replaced by an idea.

“Would you model for me?” he asks, grabbing her arms again.

Greta laughs at the idea, realizing she set herself up.

“If you can convince Mal to model for you, then I will too,” she giggles.

Brahms growls in frustration. He crosses his arms and glares at Greta, reverting to his child-like tendencies.

“She would never help me. I hate her,” he whines.

Greta stands up and stretches, walking toward the door.

“She’s my girlfriend so watch yourself,” she jokes, “I think you’d be surprised how much you two have in common if you just worked on your interpersonal skills.”

Brahms anger subsides into confusion.

“Talking to people like a person, giving them some space,” she adds.

Brahms gasps a quit “oh,” and nods. He follows her to the door, taking the lead to bring them back out into the manor.


	3. Like Steel in the Hand of the Potter

Dinnertime approaches fast as Brahms and Greta complete various chores around the manor. With a general lesson plan complete Greta feels confident that Brahms will be up to meeting new people within the year.  
She reconsiders upon checking how poorly he cleaned the bathtub, stains still all over with only a handful of scrub marks.

“Brahms,” she calls.

Within a moment Brahms stands beside her outside the bathroom. His hands are dry and cracked from refusing to wear gloves while cleaning. His pants are rolled up to the knee revealing his grimy feet and thick leg hair. Greta realizes she should have made him clean himself rather than the manor today.  
He stares at her with a blank face and hunched back, eagerly awaiting her words.

“Have you ever cleaned anything before?” she asks.

“Yes,” he lies.

“You know it’s not an issue if you need help…” Greta trails off, leaning toward him expectantly.

Brahms shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck and purposefully averting his gaze from the bathtub. 

“It looks fine to me,” he says.

“Let’s not lie to each other, Brahms,” Greta sighs.

“It’s just a bathtub, who cares?” he huffs, crossing his arms.

“It’s not about the tub,” she rubs her temples, “It’s taking pride in your effort, like your art.”

Brahms pursues his lips in thought then shakes his head.

“I don’t like cleaning,” he shrugs.

“But it still needs to be done, so you might as well do it right,” Greta says.

“You’re better at it, you should do it,” he responds and turns to walk away.

Greta’s hands turn to fists then she takes a deep breath, relaxing again. _One step at a time, he’s been treated like a doll-child his whole life._ Which means he must still think like a child in many ways. Especially in his fights with Mal…  
A clever trick formulates in Greta’s mind. It would be a bit rude to pull on a child, but Brahms is, whether he likes it or not, an adult. 

“You know, Mal is the best at cleaning. I’m sure she could do it perfectly in…” Greta fakes a pause for the drama of it all, “only ten minutes. I’ll ask her to help me instead.”

Brahms spins around on Greta with a wicked fire in his eyes. Already breathing heavily as he strips his cardigan off and charges back into the bathroom. Greta feels a pinch of shame at how easy it is to trick him, but just a pinch.  
She flings a pair of rubber gloves at him. He catches them without looking and slips them on. Greta leans on the doorframe watching as he attacks the mess with renewed ferocity. His muscles tense with each movement, revealing his lean yet surprisingly strong form. Crawling in the walls for years must be the ultimate workout. Greta catches herself before she can laugh. She will need to come up with some other way for him to stay in shape and simultaneously curb his aggression. 

“I’m going to start dinner. I’ll leave you to it,” she says.

Brahms grunts in acknowledgement still focusing on the task at hand.

~

Mal enters the manor to a series of kisses from Greta and a glare from a surprisingly confident Brahms.  
Greta insists they all eat together as a family from now on to work on Brahms’ socialization. He agrees only as long as he gets to sit at the head of the table. The meal begins with Mal and Greta trying to show Brahms how to eat at a decent pace then falls into leisurely conversation.  
Brahms brags about taking “only eight minutes!” to clean the entire bathroom earning a sarcastic “wow” from Mal. He accepts the praise with a wide grin, rocking from side-to-side. Mal can’t help but genuinely giggle at his excitement. Greta pats his shoulder proudly.

“Brahms showed me his sketchbook too, he has some really fantastic work,” Greta adds.

Brahms blushes, lowering his head to his chest and mumbling a quiet thank you.

“Did you want to ask Mal anything, Brahms?” she continues.

Brahms looks up at Greta embarrassed then toward Mal. He shifts uncomfortably between the two before blurting out his request. 

“Greta said I should ask you to model for me,” he says, white-knuckling his silverware.

Mal blinks, taken aback by his straightforward question. At 5’10” with a rather curvy and strong form she would easily be a perfect model for an artist to learn from. But the idea of a man who’s been in isolation for nearly 20 years ogling at her is less than appealing. Not to mention she doesn’t trust him as far as she can throw him. A glance at Greta melts Mal’s defenses as she sees the sparkle in her eyes. If it will make her happy then Mal will do it. They’ve gone this far down the rabbit hole.

“Are you any good?” she asks Brahms.

“Greta says I am,” he smiles toward Greta.

Mal looks to Greta for confirmation. Greta nods her head affirmative. 

“Alright, you’ve got a deal. If you promise to behave yourself,” Mal holds out her hand.

“I promise, I’ll be a good boy,” Brahms says.

He grabs her hand a bit awkwardly, not knowing exactly where to place his fingers or how hard to grasp. Mal laughs and shakes his hand.

“We’ll work on it,” she winks.

Brahms smiles, not entirely sure what he did wrong but excited about Mal’s interest in helping him.  
The three of them clear the table. Mal and Greta chat while Brahms figures out how to wash all the dishes. Dishes were one of the few chores he had over the years, but according to Greta he could use some more practice. After each plate he checks over his shoulder to catch a quick glimpse of them. He likes when they stick around. Even when he struggles and Mal laughs at him, Greta is always there to lend a helping hand. The way Mal acts so surprised when he succeeds and Greta’s words of encouragement mean the world to him.  
As he finishes up, Greta asks him to join her in cooking breakfast in the morning. Without thinking he immediately agrees. He surprises himself by showing such enthusiasm, but he is genuinely excited to learn something new with her. Not to mention starting the updated lesson plans Greta spent the whole day meticulously engineering. She refuses to give any hints on what they’ll be studying, but promises a good time.

Greta leads Brahms to one of the guest rooms on the same floor as hers and Mal’s. It’s clean and ready for use with fresh sheets and plenty of space for Brahms to unpack his stuff.

“I assume you can still get into the walls from here so you can go and grab your things when you’re ready,” Greta says, “I know it will take some getting used to, but having a normal room will help you get in the right mindset.”

Brahms chews his lip, considering if he wants to move at all. He lived in the walls for almost his entire life and definitely his whole adulthood. There’s a certain comfort in navigating his home unseen. Darkness is familiar.  
He looks down at his feet and shakes his head no.

“What’s wrong?” Greta asks, rubbing his back.

“I like my room,” he says.

“You wouldn’t feel better in a real room?” she asks.

He bristles at the idea of his room not being good enough. It fits all his needs, why should he move out? Just so she can think he’s someone he’s not? Someone normal? He was overjoyed that Greta chose to stay his nanny, but he didn’t expect so many changes to his routine. It was all too much. A pit in his stomach grows as he considers how Greta changed in her treatment of him too. Once tender words and constant affection were replaced with stern commands and pressure to act different. To act like an adult. And Mal’s constant taunts wear him down, making him want to slam his head into the wall until his skull shatters just like the doll. He needs the doll back, to remind them he’s still a boy in need of nurturing. Being an adult is harder than anything he has ever done. 

“No,” he says, tears welling in his eyes.

Before Greta can say anything Brahms is running away down the hall. She hardly takes a step before he disappears into the wall, goodbye kiss completely forgotten.  
Mal steps out from their bedroom mid-tooth brushing to see what caused the noise.

“Tantrum?” she asks.

“I think I pushed him too fast,” Greta sighs.

Mal wraps Greta in her arms and rubs her comfortingly. 

“Let’s get some sleep and try again tomorrow, love,” Mal soothes. 

~

Mal decides to take a quick shower while Greta dresses for bed. The running water silences the creaking of the walls and pattering of a large pair feet. Greta jumps at the sound of her closet door opening, looking to see Brahms’ hulking form enter her room. His sudden entry surprises Greta, sending out her breath in a shocked gasp. Before she can speak she notices him shaking as he approaches her with puffy red eyes and tears streaming down his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

He coughs out a sob then pulls her into his arms for a crushing hug.

“Brahms you’re hugging a bit too tight,” Greta says, signaling him to let go with pats on his back.

“I forgot my kiss,” he says, releasing her.

Greta takes a deep breath to steady herself. 

“It’s okay, Brahms. You can always ask...like with words,” she says.

He nods, whispering a quiet apology and fidgeting his hands behind his back. Greta stands on her tiptoes, wiping away his tears then pulling him down for a light kiss on the cheek. He immediately relaxes, softening his shoulders and sighing deeply.

“Goodnight, Greta,” he says.

“Goodnight Brahms,” she smiles.

Greta watches as he hunches back into the closet, closing the door behind him. Mal steps out of the bathroom seconds later.

“Ready for bed?” Mal asks.

“Yep! See you there,” Greta spins around and hops under the covers as if nothing happened.

Mal cocks her head, surprised, then climbs into bed with Greta for some much needed rest.


	4. Plan of Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might add another chapter today since this one is a bit shorter than usual. They're all pretty short though since each chapter is a scene, not a big ol' thing. Please leave comments/feedback and kudos if you're enjoying my fic or if you want to see it go a certain direction OR if you want to suggest a crack/fluff scene for me to write!

Hours pass, but Greta continues tossing and turning in bed. The weight of her decision finally descending upon her as she tries to sleep. Brahms wouldn’t be as quick a fix as she hoped, but where else could she find a job with this much pay? And even if she does, would Brahms let her leave?  
She shudders at the thought. He had killed Cole within seconds of bursting through the walls with no effort. There wasn’t even a chance for him to break a sweat. Mal comes and goes as she pleases, but only because Brahms prefers having Greta all to himself. There’s no guarantee Mal could beat him if they try to escape. He’s bound to be more deadly when fueled by fear of isolation.  
Mal sits up and turns on the lamp on the nightstand, sighing at Greta.

“Okay, what’s going on in that head of yours?” She asks.

Greta lies across Mal’s lap.

“It’s nothing. I’m worried about Brahms is all,” she says.

Mal runs her fingers through Greta’s soft, dark hair. Brahms certainly proved he’s capable of taking care of himself albeit not in the most healthy ways, but Mal appreciates Greta’s need to help everyone. 

“You haven’t slept at all tonight, have you?” Mal prods.

“How are we going to get through to him?” Greta asks, looking up at Mal’s smirking face.

“We probably never will,” she chuckles, “but as long as you’re here, I’m here.”

Greta smiles, sitting up to kiss Mal gently. 

“What are the lesson plans you’ve designed for stink man, anyway?” Mal asks.

“Lots of books. Starting at a high school level and working our way up,” she says, “maybe a few movies so he can visualize interactions with people.”

“And his behavior?” Mal asks.

“I was thinking you should be there to help with that,” Greta says.

Mal pursues her lips and squints. She absolutely does not want Greta alone with Brahms for those lessons, but she hates the idea of dealing with his exhausting tantrums for an extended period of time. 

“I don’t know Greta,” Mal trails off.

“Please, Mal. He’s still really bad at personal space and I need you there,” Greta pleads.

Mal raises an eyebrow.

“He’s very hands on,” Greta continues, looking away.

“That entitled creep!” Mal yells.

She scowls at the thought of Brahms touching Greta with those hands he used to murder another. What did she expect from a sniveling rich boy from the colonizing capital of the world? Of course he can’t take no for an answer. They need to get away from him. Brahms twisted Greta’s role as his nanny into some warped sexual fantasy and Mal is certain he will never get over it. Not until he gets what he wants.  
Mal starts shuffling out of the bed, but Greta grabs her arm.

“Mal wait. Think about it,” Greta says, “we have a chance to really do something here.”

Mal furrows her brow, confusion spreading across her face alongside fury.

Greta continues, “He’s all instinct. He’s never been taught anything.”

“That’s the problem,” Mal huffs.

“No, that’s an opportunity,” Greta says.

A smile pulls at Mal’s lips for a moment with as an idea starts to grow. Her eyes fill bright as she grabs Greta’s shoulders.

“We could do anything,” Mal says.

“Let’s not get crazy,” Greta laughs.

“We could make him watch only the worst movies and turn him into a nightmare for anyone with half a brain,” Mal gasps.

“Or,” Greta interrupts, “We could help him discover his own interests and passions and foster a sense of compassion.” 

“Sure, sure,” Mal waves her away, “or we could turn him into a pretentious artist and unleash him on the world with the most obscure bullshit from being a wall-crawling garbage boy.” 

“You know what, if it gets you excited to help him I’ll allow it,” Greta smiles. 

Mal hugs her tight, laying back down to cuddle in for the night and share a few lingering kisses. They lie they for a moment, running their fingers across each other’s skin absentmindedly.

“You’re really not scared of him?” Mal asks.

The events of the last couple months vividly swarm across Greta’s mind. So many strange happenings were explained by Brahms’ presence. He had countless opportunities to take advantage of her or Mal, but never did. Sure his constant spying was creepy, but what else could she expect from a man trapped in the walls since childhood? They got off to a rough start when she first moved in, but Greta fostered a genuine connection with the doll and, even if she didn’t realize at the time, Brahms. He engaged with her; moving the doll to entertain her, insisting she follow the rules to spend time together, and protecting her from Cole.  
Even the way he reached for her after killing Cole. He looked at her with such fear and longing, he wanted to be close to her, he wanted her comfort. Greta, as far as he was concerned, was his friend. The violence of his reveal put a damper on their relationship on her end, but certainly there is a chance to rekindle it. 

“No,” Greta pauses to take a deep breath as she feels the weight of her next words hit before she can speak, “I trust him.”

Mal nods. Greta reaches over to a folded paper on the nightstand and hands it to Mal.

“Also I need you to pick up a bunch of stuff for us tomorrow,” Greta says.

Mal rolls her eyes then scans the paper. Her eyes widen, stopping at the final task. She holds back a laugh, nodding her head vigorously.

“You got it, babe,” she says.

“Thank you, Mal,” Greta gives her a quick kiss.

They hold the kiss for a moment, Greta running her hands across Mal’s back while Mal softly cradles her neck.

“While we’re up...” Mal starts.

“Let’s hold off on that until he’s not living in the walls,” Greta yawns.

The two lovers fall asleep in each other’s arms, ready to unleash their new plan of attack on experiment Brahms.


	5. You Can Lead a Brahms to Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But you can't make him take a bath

Mal returns right in time for lunch with every item in hand from Greta’s list. It takes some convincing, but the two of them manage to get Brahms outside to help bring in some of the more heavy items.  
He squints at the afternoon sun, biting his lip. He struggles to remember the last time he felt the sun on his skin. Without thinking he unhunches, standing tall to enjoy the warmth. Mal honks the car, sending Brahms flying into the air with a loud yelp. Greta catches him mid-sprint, glaring at Mal.

“Come on big guy, Mal was only teasing you,” Greta coos.

Brahms considers tossing Greta to the side and running into the house to throw a tantrum, but they piqued his curiosity by specifically requesting his strength. He sighs heavily and nods, following Greta to the trunk.

The trunk is littered with bags full of books, dvds, various health and beauty products, clothes, and a few larger bulk items.  
Mal loops bags through her outstretched arms and lifts them with ease.

“Bet I can carry more than you,” she taunts him.

Brahms reaches for all the remaining bags until Greta grabs his arm.

“Brahms, no, ignore her. I need you to carry that,” she points to the large flat screen.

“It’s not that heavy but it’s huge, like you,” Greta laughs, patting his back.

Brahms gruffs, pulling the tv into his arms and racing into the house after Mal.

~

Mal puts their purchases away in their designated spots while Greta sets up the tv in the living room. Brahms sits in a tangle of long limbs on the floor, watching with fascination as Greta detangles the wires with one hand and quietly reads the setup manual in the other. Her brow furrows, deep in thought as she picks through the mess of cords.

“Can you put it up on the mantle?” Greta asks Brahms without looking up.

They finish setting up when Mal crashes onto the fancy sofa, cutting off Brahms mid-sit. Brahms scowls, lifting her from the seat and placing her on the other side. She laughs at his silly maneuver. Just this once she lets him get away with it. Greta plops down between the two of them, fidgeting with the remote and setup screens.

“Do I need to be here for this part?” Mal asks.

“Yeah, I’m just making sure it works then we’re all going to learn what social cues are,” Greta says.

Brahms crosses his arms and sinks in the sofa, “I’m not an idiot.”

Mal and Greta shoot Brahms a skeptical glance. He rolls his eyes, huffing dramatically.

“You have to agree you’re very out of practice,” Greta reassures him.

“I’ve been doing perfectly fine with you two,” he defends.

“Brahms, the first thing you did outside the walls was kill a man,” Mal says.

“He was attacking Greta!” Brahms flings his arms out in frustration.

“True,” Greta says.

“No! You still run around grabbing us, and you smell like death. I can barely breathe when you’re around you’re so rank,” Mal says. 

“And what’s on your shirt, is that from dinner like two days ago?” Mal points to the series of stains running across Brahms’ yet unchanged shirt.

Brahms is completely red. His muscles twitch as he sits up, ready to pounce on Mal and silence her. Greta rubs large circles on his back to calm him down.

“I think that’s enough teasing, Mal,” Greta says, “Brahms, do you want to use our shower to clean up?”

“I don’t like showering,” he says, sinking back into the sofa.

“If you want us to continue taking care of you, you’re going to need to shower,” she says.

Brahms squints, considering her words carefully. He stands up to his full, imposing height.

“Make me,” he dares.

~

Mal and Greta sit on their bed and wait for Brahms to finish changing in their bathroom. Brahms steps out of the bathroom, hunching dramatically. His body is almost entirely covered in thick, black hair. Dark curls cascade around his face, grazing his coarse beard and scarred neck. He tugs nervously at his new swim trunks. To his surprise he genuinely likes the bright pink base and white seahorse pattern, but he would never tell Mal or Greta. Mal strategically bought matching swimsuits for the three of them with a light green one-piece for herself and a baby blue bikini for Greta.

“You don’t want to wear the goggles?” Greta asks.

Brahms shakes his head no without looking up.

“They squeeze my head,” he mutters.

“We’ll see how you do without them then,” Greta sighs, “let’s get to it.”

Mal runs the water, finding the perfect temperature while Greta explains each soap product in detail to Brahms.

“I know what soap is,” he pouts.

“Do you know not to put it in your hair?” Greta asks.

Brahms sighs angrily, growling in his throat.

“I don’t think my head hair is different than the hair everywhere else,” he gestures across his body.

“He may be on to something,” Mal chimes in.

“See!” Brahms says.

“No, damn it, just try it this way and then do whatever next time,” Greta sighs.

Brahms nods, pleased to finally win an argument. 

Mal pulls the shower curtain aside. Steam pours out, promising a refreshingly scalding shower. Brahms stands in front of the tub and chews his lip. He looks at Greta for reassurance. Holding his hand Greta steps into the shower first then leads him in.  
Brahms howls as the hot water touches his skin. Greta tries to hold him steady but he wriggles free from her grip and jumps out of the tub. Mal corners him back toward the shower while Greta lowers the temperature. 

“Look,” she says, “you can change it if it’s too hot, you’re fine.”

Slowly Brahms reaches his hand out to touch the water. Everything about it screams wrong to him, but he climbs in anyway with encouragement from Greta and Mal.  
The water browns immediately upon contact with his skin. Years of dirt and grime once trapped in layers of dead skin and forests of hair finally slough off, dragging a pleased groan from deep within Brahms’ chest. Without prompting he dunks his head forward into the stream of hot water removing even filthier layers of oils and debris. Holding back a gag Mal steps out of the shower. Greta grimaces as she dances her feet away in attempts to dodge the contaminated water.  
Minutes pass as Brahms stands unmoving, letting the water rinse away all his stress and filth. A gentle pat on his back from Greta snaps him back to the moment. He spins to face her, hurtling water from his curls all over the bathroom. 

“Ready to lather up?” Greta asks.

Brahms nods.

Mal squirts a sizeable amount of body wash into three washcloths, handing one to each of them. Mimicking Greta, Brahms lathers up. The bubbles floating around bring a smile to his face. That and the amazing smell of lavender. 

“Don’t forget to wash behind your ears,” Mal teases them.

Brahms giggles. He never laughs, but something about the silliness of taking a shower all together makes his heart beat faster and his stomach fill with butterflies. Instinctively he gathers up a dollop of soapy bubbles and quickly places it on Greta’s nose. He laughs uproariously as she giggles and tries to blow it off, making a ridiculous face by crossing her eyes. Even Mal laughs at his antics and not _at_ him for once.  
They finish rinsing off while Mal grabs the shampoo. The women lather it into their hair while Brahms watches intensely, trying to replicate their movements. After struggling for a bit too long, Greta sits him down so she can reach his head and does it for him. He groans in pleasure as she massages his scalp. 

“See, it’s not so bad,” Greta coos.

All is well, until Brahms opens his eyes. While they rinse the shampoo from his hair a stray line of soap drains into his eye. Before they can tell him to keep them closed he screeches in pain, flinging himself from the tub and slamming against the wall.

“What did you do to me?” he yells, turning on them.

“You’re supposed to keep your eyes closed, it burns otherwise,” Greta tries to calm him, “that’s why we bought goggles for you.”

“Fix it!” he screams.

Mal grabs him and drags him back to the shower, holding his head under the stream as he writhes about trying to fight her.

“Keep your eyes open, we have to wash it out,” Mal instructs.

Brahms’ howls turn to whimpers as they finish rinsing his eyes and hair. Mal releases him and sits down on the floor, drained from the struggle. 

“I think we’ll skip conditioner today,” Greta sighs.

“You’re going to need to do the last bit yourself,” she points to his swim trunks, “We’ll be in the other room if you need us.”

“Work fast, the hot water is running out,” Mal winks.

~ 

Brahms does a turn for Greta and Mal, showing off his new clothes. They hoot and holler chanting his name while he blushes uncontrollably. He refuses to wear the new shoes, but immediately slips into the dark sweatpants. Finally, a pair of pants that actually fit. Coverage for his ankles is a whole new, amazing experience along with how the softness of the fabric. The shirt seems a bit odd to him, stopping at his midriff with big cursive text that says “Baby Doll,” but he enjoys the light breeze on his hairy stomach when he walks. He glares at Mal when he realizes the joke of the text.

“Very funny,” he growls. 

“I thought you’d like it,” she smiles.

“Now this is just for around the house,” Greta says, “It’s comfort clothes.”

“I’m never leaving the house anyway,” he shrugs.

Greta and Mal exchange a nervous glance. Mal’s eyes widen as she points at Brahms with her head and mouths something to Greta. Greta sighs deeply and stands up.

“Actually, we wanted to ask you about that,” she starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got too excited and wrote another chapter today LOL please anyone draw brahms in this outfit i would cry i love my garbage boy stink man so much


	6. House Arrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls drink and the boy needs a shrink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gimme some kudos and comments so i know it's real xoxo

Books are ripped from their shelves and furniture is toppled as Brahms howls in anger. The attempts to discuss leaving the house and meeting other people did not go well. No corner of the manor is safe from his wrath, except for his own room within the walls. Greta and Mal sit in the kitchen quietly sipping their tea as Hurricane Brahms continues to rage within the manor.

“We should have waited,” Mal says, nonchalantly stirring another sugar cube into her cup.

“I thought honesty would help,” Greta sighs.

A scream of agony follows a loud crash upstairs. Mal lifts her eyes up to meet Greta’s worried face. Greta rubs her temples roughly, thinking of how in the world she can fix this situation.   
Whiskey splashes into her teacup bringing her back to reality. Mal stands over her pouring and gives her a wink.

“This is foul,” Greta sputters.

“You need to take your edge off if your going to deal with that beast,” Mal says.

Greta pours her tea down the sink and retrieves a bottle of red wine.

“I got that covered,” she says, taking a swig from the bottle.

Mal throws her hands up. She cannot let her girlfriend outdrink her. Grabbing the wine from Greta’s hands Mal pours herself a glass. There’s no way she wants to be sober when it comes time to deal with Brahms’ aftermath. The two of them spiral into a fit of giggles as they down their first glass of wine. By the third Mal is fully flushed and Greta finally begins to feel a bit tipsy.

“How are _you_ the lightweight?” Greta laughs.

Mal giggles, spilling wine on the table.

“Please, no one in the world drinks as much as you do,” Mal responds.

They erupt into laughter, clutching each other to keep Mal from falling out of her seat. As they near the end of the bottle Brahms stomps into the kitchen heaving with ragged breaths. His usually wild curls slicked down to his head with sweat and hands bloodied and shaking. Upon his swift entry Mal gasps out a hiccup and struggles to her feet in surprise. 

“We made tea,” Greta starts, “but I think it’s cold now.”

Mal laughs a wide, open-mouthed laugh and slaps at her thighs, earning a stern side-eye from Greta. Brahms tilts his head, aghast, as he looks back and forth between the two women. Pure anger radiates off his body in tangible waves, but Mal continues sipping at her wine a final time before sitting on the floor and falling asleep. Head in hands, Greta realizes she’s on her own for this one.

“Feeling better?” she asks with a pained smile.

Brahms blinks in surprise. He opens his mouth to speak then closes it again, brow furrowed and hands outstretched in front of him. He tilts his head to the other side and tries again. 

“No.”

“Yeah that’s…yeah,” Greta trails off, “Do you want to sit down?”

Brahms looks at the empty chair nearest him then back to Greta. With one hand he lifts the chair and smashes it onto the ground again sending splinters flying. A sputtered “huh” escapes Mal as she jolts up, but falls back asleep. 

“No need to be dramatic,” Greta scowls.

In one stride, Brahms is hunched over her. His hot breath pushes into her face. At least it smells of toothpaste now. One hand white-knuckles the back of her chair and the other the edge of the table. With sweat rolling down his face a breath away from hers, Greta notices the finer details of his scarring. It mostly shows on his cheek and forehead, a bit of his eyebrow is unable to grow in while the side of his mouth is melted into a frown. The scarring skips where his beard has grown in, luckily, but it continues down past his neck and onto his shoulder. Growing up hurt like hell.

His eyes bore into hers, searching for any sign of emotion, of fear. A smile tugs at her lips, he’s very handsome, but an absolute brute. They have a long way to go. She places her hands on his, slowly lifting them into hers and bringing them to the front.

“You can’t intimidate me, baby doll,” she tsks.

Brahms squeezes her hands for reassurance then squats in front of her. Letting her look down at him will frighten her less, he hopes.

“I heard you and Mallory last night,” he says.

“She was joking, you...”

“You’re not scared of me,” he interrupts.

“No, but…” Greta bites her lip, “I don’t know how to explain.”

Brahms stands, not breaking eye contact. Still holding hands he steps back gently pulling Greta with him. She follows without hesitation. 

~

The two of them sit outside in the crisp early morning. Huddled in blankets they watch the stars extinguish one by one as the sun peeks over the horizon.

“You’ll catch a cold with bare feet,” Greta says, pointing to his exposed toes.

Brahms smirks, pulling them under his blanket. His shoulders and knees poke out, far too large for the small throw blanket. Greta rocks side-to-side absentmindedly. 

“Why’d you want to sit out here?” she asks.

“I want to try,” he starts, “but…I don’t like how it feels.”

Greta watches his face closely, waiting for him to continue.

“I like the walls,” he fidgets with the blanket.

He needs to think fast. Sure he’s lived in fear his whole life, but the walls have always protected him. The outside world will not be so friendly and he’s…scared.

“Don’t you think you’re a bit big for living in the walls now?” she prompts.

He huffs, a flash of frustrated anger in his eyes.

“You don’t get it,” he scowls, turning away.

“Then explain it,” she says, placing a hand on his back.

He shakes her off and sighs heavily. He pouts facing away from her. His petulant antics strike a nerve with Greta. The strain of taking care of this man-child while convincing her girlfriend to even put up with him was already wearing her down. She wants to help him, but he’s making it difficult, almost on purpose. 

“I’m supposed to be dead anyway,” he says, “I’m not allowed to leave.”

“But if you could…”

“I can’t!” He yells, interrupting her and standing abruptly.

“Listen to me,” she grabs his arm.

Brahms pulls away and catches Greta’s wrist in his fist, squeezing tight. His fingers coil around her with the strength of decades hiding and suffering alone. Tears well in her eyes as his grip bruises her. Their eyes meet, fierce and terrified. 

“Don’t touch me,” he says, releasing her.

“You’re not even trying to talk to me,” Greta retorts.

He clenches his jaw tight.

“You’re in my house and you take my money, the least you can do is listen,” he says.

Greta recoils at his words. She struggles to think of where she’s gone wrong. She’s asked questions, been patient, stayed positive. She hasn’t felt doubt about herself like this since Cole…  
Brahms sees the shift in Greta’s eyes from determination to hurt. Pure _hurt_. Ashamed, he looks down at his feet. He’s so used to getting his way no matter what. He didn’t care about Mummy and Daddy, it was all their fault to begin with…but Greta. His stomach twists.

“We’re trying to help you, Brahms. This is new for all of us,” she says.

“I can’t be helped,” he shakes his head, his curls bounce and drape his sharp face now streaming with tears.

Soft footsteps approach as Mal joins the two of them, bringing water and more blankets.

“Enough of that,” Mal punches his shoulder, “You’re a goddamn adult with the two smartest lesbians in the world taking care of you.”

Brahms glares at her, rubbing his shoulder.

“If we’re going to help, then you need to be willing to help yourself,” Mal continues, “you stinky motherfucker.”

Brahms shoves her playfully, not fully aware of his own strength or the extent of Mal’s inebriated state. She falls on her ass and sits silently for a moment, then laughs. Greta and Brahms help her to her feet as the sun rises, signaling the start of a new day. They huddle together, breath visible in the air.

“It’s not so bad,” Greta coos.

“It’s very cold,” Brahms says.

The women look at the blanket incapable of covering him and his still bare midriff. They chuckle, leading him back into the house for breakfast. And hopefully naps.


	7. Do It Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never clean up someone else's tantrums.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of angst this chapter, but what else can we expect from everyone's favorite rat bastard?  
> comments n kudos much appreciated!

Silence fills the manor as its three residents nap after a hearty breakfast. Brahms holes up in his room while Mal and Greta sprawl on the sofa, one of the few places left untouched by Brahms tantrum from only a few hours before. Drool pools around Mal’s face as she sleeps off her hangover. Greta bats her eyes open, squinting at the afternoon light pouring through the windows. A deep sigh escapes her chest. She tenderly rubs her bruised wrist, cursing under her breath. Without waking Mal, Greta tiptoes to the music room.  
Broken records and scattered books litter the floor requiring Greta to carefully navigate her way to the hidden panel in the wall. Taking a deep breath, she opens it. Without a sound she enters the walls to find Brahms.

~

A sharp snore suddenly pulls Brahms out of his sleep. Gasping awake, he rubs his eyes and looks around. Checking the microwave clock reveals it’s early in the afternoon. A rumble in his stomach tells him the same. Rising from bed, he stretches tall and finds new clothes to change into.   
He takes a quick look in the mirror to admire his new sweater and run his fingers through his hair for a quick comb. He’s too attached to the sweat pants to swap them out yet. Loud knocking at the door causes him to jump in surprise.

“Brahms?” Greta’s muffled voice asks.

“What?” he asks.

“Can I come in?” she asks, slightly opening the door.

He hops around the room shoving away anything that needs hiding before responding, “Yes.”

Greta enters to find his room in slightly better shape than her last visit. She smiles upon seeing him in one of his new sweaters. Any act of self-care, even changing a shirt, is a vast improvement.

“How are you?” Greta asks.

Brahms checks in, flexing various muscles and rolling his limbs. Twinges of pain assault his scabbing hands as soreness permeates his whole body. What he wouldn’t give to crawl back into bed.

“Bad,” he says.

Greta nods knowingly. Last night had been rough on all of them.

“Come on, I need help making lunch,” she says, reaching a hand out to him.

Relieved, Brahms rushes up to hold her hand and follow her down to the kitchen.

~

Despite her pounding headache, Mal kisses Greta goodbye and ruffles Brahms hair before leaving for work. She’s hours late, but as the owner of the grocery store she gives herself a bit of slack. Brahms helps Greta clean up lunch in the kitchen, the both of them stepping over the broken chair.

“Everything is still a mess,” Brahms says, confused.

Greta faces him, leaning her back against the counter.

“Yeah,” she starts, “You’ve got a lot of work to do today.”

Brahms tilts his head, completely unaware of what Greta could possibly mean. She leans forward expectantly, staring at him as if the answer is obvious. Another moment of silence passes. Realization dawns on Greta. Brahms’ tantrums are his way of punishing others. He’s never cleaned up after himself before.

“Brahms, you made this mess. You have to clean it up,” she says.

“That’s your job,” he shakes his head.

Greta takes a deep breath. She searches for a way to explain the situation to him as an adult without patronizing him. He loves being coddled, but something within him flips when being treated like a child during serious discussions. It’s a dangerous line to walk, but Greta insists she can do it. She swears they’ve made progress. Even if only in getting him to change a shirt…

“Am I your nanny, or your friend?” she asks.

Brahms pulls his head back in shock, “You want to be my friend?”

_Of course he doesn’t know what a friend is._

“If I was your nanny I would stick you back in the walls and keep taking care of the doll,” she says.

He bristles at the thought of being abandoned in the walls again. Unknowingly, he clenches his fists. The walls had always been his safe haven, but he’d found comfort in being seen. Greta and Mal saw him without his mask and they still take care of him. Yes, even Mal has grown on him. He enjoys eating fresh meals with them and teasing them. He enjoys making them laugh. His stomach retches when he sees how he hurts them. He wants to make them… _proud?_ He shakes his head vigorously, pushing all his thoughts to the side and focusing on Greta again. Never again will he be forced to hide in the walls.

“No,” he growls.

Greta recoils at his aggressive change in demeanor, but takes a step forward nonetheless.

“I’m not going to do that, Brahms,” she soothes, “because I’m not your nanny anymore. I’m your friend.”

Fear pours into his body as her words hit him. He had a friend once, Emily Cribbs. His heart sinks at the thought. Emily was nice to him too. Even when he was being such a brat, she always stuck around. It was his fault what happened, at least that’s what Mummy and Daddy always said. It was his fault when he played too rough and knocked her down and…   
He deserved to burn. 

“No!” He yells, tears filling his eyes as he steps away.

Greta doesn’t want to push him, but he can’t keep running away from every serious conversation…

“Brahms, count to ten right now then sit down,” she insists, holding her hands out to calm him.

Visibly shaking, he starts to count aloud in a whisper. He trusts Greta even if he doesn’t trust himself. Slowly, Greta approaches him. She joins him as he sits, but keeps her distance. Tears stream down his face, but no sound escapes his heaving chest.   
Another moment passes and he turns to look at Greta. She watches him intently, holding a brave face but clearly distressed. He scoots next to her and lies down, resting his body on her lap. He cries into her while she quietly shushes him, whispering affirmations. Greta gently pets his hair for a while longer until she feels him slowly sink down, exhausted. The awkward position and the weight of his body quickly puts her legs to sleep.

“Hey big guy,” she coos, “you’re a bit too big to be napping on me.”

Brahms starts awake, smiling sheepishly. He helps lift her to her feet and murmurs an apology. They look into each other’s eyes for another moment until Greta breaks the silence.

“I know you’re scared.”

He looks away.

“I don’t know all the reasons why,” she continues, “but I’m here.”

His curls bounce as he nods his head quickly.

“You still have to clean the manor,” she says.

For a moment he considers throwing another tantrum, but one look at her makes him reconsider. 

~

The cleaning process is slow and arduous. Having never cleaned up his handiwork before, Brahms struggles from room to room sighing and complaining often. Greta offers to keep him company, chatting away the hours. With something keeping Brahms occupied he eases into conversation. They run through the basic small talk: favorite foods and seasons, happy memories, what makes them laugh. As the conversation lulls, Brahms notices Greta rubbing at her bruised wrist.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

Greta opens her mouth to reassure him, but stops. All she can muster is a faint half smile.

“I forget my own strength,” he says.

She stands abruptly and he moves to follow but stops just short, placing his hands behind his back. Greta finds a seat a bit farther away. He watches her carefully, not moving.

“Do you know why I was scared of Cole?” she asks.

“He tried to hurt you, tried to take you away,” he responds, “and you didn’t want to.”

Greta pauses for a moment. Brahms doesn’t need to know the whole story, she figures. 

“Did you see how he grabbed me? In the billiard room,” Greta asks.

Brahms’ blood boils as he remembers that night. The way Cole tried to force her to leave. To force her to kiss him. How he grabbed her to make her stay…  
Realization floods Brahms’ face as he looks at his own hands then to Greta. She struggles to hold back tears as she also remembers the horrors of Cole.

“Greta, I’m so sorry,” Brahms says.

“You understand now…” Greta starts but Brahms interrupts her, rushing over and hugging her.

“I never want to scare you,” he chokes, “I want to be your friend.”

Now it’s her turn. Holding him tight, she cries softly onto his chest for a moment before pulling away. He releases her, watching her face. While he is a comfortable spot to cry, she knows he isn’t ready to handle another person’s troubles. Not yet. _At least he understands why grabbing is not okay now._

“I’ll get dinner ready while you finish up,” she says.

“Are you sure you want to be alone?” he asks.

She nods, “Mal will be home soon anyway.”

~

After dinner the three of them lounge in front of the tv, sprawled across each other on the couch. Mal sits, arms and legs spread comfortably with Greta resting her head on Mal’s lap and Brahms resting his back and head against Mal’s side with his legs hanging over the edge. A movie plays silently as they read the subtitles, all drifting off to sleep. The long, sleepless night and day of work finally catches up to all of them.


	8. Filler Episode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gang Gets Fluffy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to take a break this weekend for my anniversary so I'm just going to be throwing little filler scenes in here for the next day or so. All fluff all the time.  
> kudos and comments very much appreciated!  
> ~ is within same scene  
> \--- ends a scene

**Art Can Be Bad, Actually**

“Can I draw you today?” Brahms asks Mal and Greta as they all finish their lunch.

The women exchange a quick glance then laugh. Of course he remembers _that._

“Have you finished your readings for the day?” Greta asks.

He nods emphatically, already standing from his chair and gathering their dishes. Mal scowls as he grabs her plate with food still on it.

“Excited, are we?” she taunts.

Brahms manages to stack all the dishes on his long arms, powerwalking his way to the kitchen. Greta suppresses a giggle.

“We’ve created a monster,” she says.

~

Greta and Mal sit by the harpsichord waiting for Brahms to return from the walls. The sound of floorboards creaking and discordant footsteps signals Brahms’ entry through the hidden panel, every possible art supply in hand. He sets up at the desk, absorbed in his routine. The girlfriends wait patiently for him to finish; enjoying the sight of him so visibly enthused for once. He looks up at them with the most serious face eliciting giggles from them.

“Clothes?” he asks, pointing with his chin.

“Really?” Mal huffs.

Brahms scowls, unsure about her response. Greta begins undressing, sighing with resignation. 

“It’ll be fine,” she assures Mal.

Mal scoffs and joins her.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she warns him.

After folding their clothes and placing them to the side, Brahms stands and approaches them. They both tense, but relax when they notice he’s not quite looking at them. He reaches out to Greta’s shoulders and gently motions her to sit on the bench and face the instrument.

“Brahms,” she interrupts him, “It will be more effective if you tell us what you want, then adjust.”

He tilts his head in thought, then nods and returns to lean on the desk.

“You play,” he points at Greta. “And you watch,” he points to Mal.

Greta and Mal glance at each other, skeptical at his lack of instruction, but attempt to fill his request nonetheless.

A loud gruff escapes Brahms’ chest. Impatiently, he fixes their poses. He relaxes Greta’s shoulders that had stiffened up to her ears and kicks one of her feet onto the pedal. He ghosts his hands over hers, mimicking a more realistic pose for playing the keys.

“Like this?” she asks.

Not wanting to speak, he huffs at her affirmatively. With soft, steady hands he touches her face, tilting it slightly away from Mal. 

Awkwardly, he pokes at Greta’s lips, “Smile.”

The speed of his turn toward Mal catches her off-guard. A light gasp flies from her mouth as he grabs her arms, shifting her next to the harpsichord. 

“Bend,” he instructs.

She complies, albeit wary. With a few more adjustments he steps back, carefully scanning the scene. He nods once and runs back to the desk to begin his work.

~

It what feels like no time, Brahms sets his sketchbook down. Trying not to break their poses, Mal and Greta peek over.

“Are you done?” Mal asks through closed teeth.

“Yes,” he says, beginning to pack away his supplies.

Mal and Greta rush over to him in excitement. Before Brahms can react, Mal snatches the sketchbook from his hands.  
While Brahms sulks in his chair, Mal and Greta stare, mouths agape, at the finished sketch.

“I was going to add clothes later,” he starts, but is interrupted by a series of shushes.

The piece shows Greta sitting at the harpsichord mid-tune, smiling shyly away from Mal who leans over toward her, entranced by her beauty. Somehow, Brahms managed to portray the pure love in Mal’s eyes, how she couldn’t be close enough. The way Greta seemed to almost tease her by not returning her gaze. 

Brahms grabs the sketchbook back, towering over the two of them.

“It’s beautiful,” Greta says.

“I hate to admit it, Brahmsy, but I’m impressed,” Mal seconds.

He blushes, fidgeting with the pages.

“I could show you another one I made,” he offers, basking in their compliments. 

“One second,” Greta says. 

Her and Mal quickly put their clothes back on then rejoin Brahms at the desk. He flips back a few pages to reveal a full-page, colored piece. He smirks, having guessed their reactions to it perfectly.  
Greta blushes, covering her mouth to hide a surprised gasp. Mal scowls furiously.

“A toad!” she yells.

This piece took a more creative route in their depictions. The three of them were seated on the couch from the main room together with Greta snuggled in Brahms’ arms and Mal on the other side pouting. But the biggest surprise was _what_ they were. Brahms had drawn what resembled him, but as a large, muscular wolf man with no scars. Greta was a somehow sexy rabbit with her rabbit ears in a ponytail and breasts pressed against Brahms’ bare, wolf chest. Mal, perhaps most unfortunately of all, was a large, warty green toad, croaking angrily at the two of them.

“You made us fursonas, that’s…sweet,” Greta attempts to calm Mal.

“If anyone’s a wolf, I am!” Mal yells, “You’d be a nasty sewer rat!”

Brahms bursts into laughter. He always enjoyed his old children’s books that depicted animals living like humans. And he’d seen and drawn far more animals than people. Combining the two, just to annoy Mal, seemed the perfect use of his free time over the past few days.  
He lifts the sketchbook over his head and out of Mal’s reach as she tries to tear the page.

“Quit your croaking,” he teases.

A fire flashes in Mal’s eyes.

“Two can play at that game,” she says.

Within moments, Mal finishes a crude drawing of a rat eating garbage with the word bubble “I’m a trash-eating stink man.”  
Greta fails to hold back her laughter at their ridiculous antics. Brahms frowns, but then a wicked smile spreads across his face.

“Very good, Mallory! You made your first drawing! And it sucks,” he taunts.

With a guttural yell, Mal tackles Brahms. The two of them wrestle on the ground as Greta tries to pull them apart but can’t stop laughing. In no time Brahms pins Mal.

“I’m sorry,” he pants, “I’m not too good at jokes yet.”

He releases her, the two of them sitting on the ground next to each other breathing heavily.

“It was alright,” Mal concedes. 

“Thank you,” he says.

The women help Brahms pack up his art supplies and wish him a safe journey through the walls.

\---

**"It Moves Me Ugly"**

“If I have to play another board game I swear I will run into traffic,” Mal groans.

“You’re just mad you can never win,” Brahms taunts.

Greta rubs her temples, thinking of what to occupy them with for the night. She glances at the clock to see it’s still only early evening. Normally, they’d all go their separate ways for the night, but Greta’s recently insisted they do an activity as a family every other evening. This is only the third family night and Mal and Brahms are already at each other’s throats. Sitting them in front of the tv would be easy, but Greta highly doubts it will facilitate any real bonding. 

“Brahms, do you know how to dance?” Greta asks.

Brahms and Mal pause their argument. Thinking back, he furrows his brow and darts his eyes ahead. He remembers seeing his parents and guests dance at parties, but he himself has never danced. Not once since living behind the walls.

“No,” he shakes his head.

“Then that’s what we’ll do tonight,” Greta clasps her hands.

“You’re going to teach that behemoth?” Mal asks.

“ _We’re_ going to teach him,” Greta corrects.

~

Brahms lifts the gramophone off its stand for Greta to place her speakers. Mal helps clear space in the music room for their practice. Once set up, Greta takes a look at Brahms’ outfit and pursues her lips. In truth, none of them are really dressed for dancing at the moment.

“You’re thinking we should all change,” Mal guesses, completely unsurprised.

“Read my mind,” she responds.

Brahms watches them skeptically. He knows they aren’t fans of his clothes, but he fails to see how it could be such a problem. And why do they both seem so excited to change?

“Okay, Brahmsy, we’ll be right back,” Mal says, “You should go throw on one of your crop tops. Keep the sweats.”

~  
The women enter wearing yoga pants of complimentary colors, loose graphic shirts, matching sports bras, and, for solidarity with Brahms, bare feet. Greta’s shirt depicts a Western astrological star chart while Mal’s depicts three wolves howling at a full moon. Brahms arises from his slouch in the chair wearing his usual sweat pants and a new, long-sleeve crop top hoodie.

“Looking good,” Mal playfully punches his arm.

Brahms sighs, crossing his arms in a childish pout, “Yours is way better.”

Mal laughs, then grabs his arm suddenly, “Let’s switch.”

They both giggle excitedly while Greta rubs her temples. “At least they’re getting along,” she thinks to herself. On Brahms’ large form the wolf shirt becomes a tight crop top while his hoodie engulfs Mal.

“Oh! This is wicked,” Mal smiles, rolling the sleeves up.

“Alright you two, let’s start with something simple,” Greta says.

Plugging her phone in, Greta searches for a simple, classical song to work on basic movements with Brahms. His height and weight may prove difficult for them to maneuver, but his strength and speed should equate to fine motor skills. An eagerness to learn makes the whole process much easier as well. Mal stands back to observe while Greta gets into position with Brahms.

“Your hand under mine…yep okay and your other hand here,” Greta says, placing his hand on her hip, “And we’re just going to step together to the beat.”

Brahms grumbles, brow furrowing with frustration as he tries to keep up. They take it painfully slow, yet he still finds ways to accidently step on Greta’s feet. Each time he steps he apologizes, growing increasingly annoyed and gruff. As the song comes to an end he pulls away, groaning. How he hates the way his long limbs and large form stop him from enjoying playing with his friends. He wishes desperately to be more like the doll again, but Mal’s words interrupt his thoughts.

“You need to feel it, not think about it,” she says, shoving him playfully, “Here I’m picking the next song.”

Greta claps and bounces excitedly as she sees Mal’s song choice, Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Cut to the Feeling.”

“Watch and learn,” Mal winks at him.

Mal runs to lower the lights as the song begins then bolts back to Greta to begin. Brahms tilts his head; unable to place the strange sounds he’s hearing from the speakers. This is nothing like his usual classical and opera, and certainly not like the sounds on tv.  
As the lyrics begin, the two girlfriends move faster. Hand in hand they dance a freeform tango. By the thirty second mark they split, dancing wildly on their own to the beat and meeting as the song slows again for another intense, passionate waltz.  
Brahms can’t help bouncing to the beat, though he has no idea what to do with the rest of himself. Blushing uncontrollably in embarrassment, he opts to sit on the ground to watch the rest of their dance. And what a beautiful, lively dance it is.  
As the song fades out, Greta and Mal exchange a gentle kiss, then part.

“Easy, right?” Mal asks him.

Brahms tilts his head at her skeptically; annoyed she would even ask that.

“I know what will loosen you up,” Greta smiles deviously. 

~

The last few drops of wine fill Brahms’ glass. Mal paces herself much better this time at only two glasses, while Brahms and Greta go for the gold. A second bottle lies in wait as he tries to choke back more of the fruity red drink. He held his liquor well, at first. His size gave an advantage for the first glass or two, but by the third he was all flush and giggly. A small snack plate, a blessing of Greta’s preparedness, is all that separates Brahms from a night of vomit.

“How you feeling, big guy?” Greta asks.

He grins wide. All the response he can muster is a giggle and a slurred, “This stuff tastes awful.”

“It’s not about taste, Brahmsy,” Mal chuckles.

Clumsily, he turns to face Mal and shoots her an awkward “right you are” and a failed attempt at a finger gun. One of the more ridiculous modern things he’s picked up on. 

“Ready to dance?” Greta asks him.

He nods vigorously, “I want that song.”

“The one we danced to earlier?”

A soft “yes” slurs past his lips as he struggles from his seat with help from Mal.

“We may have done him in,” Mal laughs, pulling him to the makeshift dance floor. 

Greta rolls her eyes and starts the song, turning on a few lamps and off the main light. As she runs back to join them, Mal tries to get Brahms moving, holding his hands in hers as she dances around. He stumbles awkwardly, loud thumps wherever his feet land, followed by loud giggles instead of grumbles. 

“Try closing your eyes, don’t worry about how you look,” Greta shouts over the music.

Brahms manages a scowl, unwilling to trust what he can’t see. He shakes his head and refuses.

“Yes! We’ll make sure you don’t fall, promise,” Mal says, genuinely reassuring him.

A heavy sigh racks through his body, pushing his now rancid breath into their faces. He complies. Maybe it’s the alcohol or the music, but somehow he feels like everything will be okay. Maybe he trusts his friends...  
With his eyes closed and blood like sludge, he gyrates rather than dances. An awful mix between newborn deer and recipient of a deadly electric shock. Mal and Greta fail to contain their uproarious laughter as they watch this juggernaut of a man absolutely cut loose on the dance floor. A literal murderer, drunk out of his mind, vibrating to the ultimate gay anthem…They were going to need that second bottle of wine.  
As the song ends, the two girlfriends rush over to grab themselves another drink. They will enjoy this night to its fullest potential. In a whirlwind of sweat and pants, Brahms rushes up to Mal and Greta, lifting them in each of his massive arms. 

“Again!” He yells.

“Alright, alright!” Greta laughs, “Let us drink first.”

“That too,” he says, grabbing Greta’s glass and downing it.

He dances his way to the speakers and manages to replay the song. That boy learns fast. Especially when motivated.

~

At no point did his dancing improve, but he did eventually move to the rhythm. The song runs its final course of the night after nearly an hour of repeating. They all lie in a puddle on the floor together: a pile of exhausted limbs, sweat, awful breath, and love. 

“Did you have fun?” Greta asks.

The only response is the sound of Brahms’ deep snores. With much difficulty, Greta manages to find a blanket to drape over all of them before passing out as well. 

\---


	9. Who Told You That?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had a dope anniversary. rushed this chapter so y'all would have some content again finally so.. didnt edit it good luck

Mornings at the Heelshire Manor finally, after years of secrets polluting the air, hum with familial tenderness. Lessons on social intricacies and the modern world evolve Brahms into a competent, kind man. Though lots of work is still required. At least he wields better control and expression of his emotions. He finds a profound joy in playing dumb to elicit the horror and annoyance of Mal. Unfortunately, his attempt to eat a hardboiled egg, shell and all, was a genuine misunderstanding that nearly killed Mal with a fit of laughter so powerful she passed out.  
They each find new ways to care for themselves and one another. Until finally, Greta believes enough trust has been established to ask Brahms the question that’s been burning in her mind since their conversation that one long night… 

“Why did they burn you?” she asks.

Greta and Brahms stand outside, leaning on the balcony railing, trying to enjoy the fresh air on an otherwise grey and gloomy afternoon. Warnings of a coming storm linger in the clouds as they block out the sun. Brahms heaves a sigh and fidgets with his hands, unsure of how to respond. If he even wants to. A light breeze pushes his curls from his face, fully exposing his scars to Greta’s concerned gaze. She waits patiently, watching his face for any sign of change. Discomfort, especially to this extent, is a new pain for Brahms. Tension thickens the air as much as the humidity as his silence continues. Before, if anything had upset him, he would simply run away or throw a tantrum. No matter how many books he’d read, expressing himself verbally was never a strong suit. Years of his parents hiding him, refusing to listen to his cries for help and attention, trained him well for a life of loneliness. Not so well for…this.  
Greta reaches out to grab his hand for comfort. He flinches away, but gruffs an apology before entwining his hand with hers. Holding her hand calmed the raging in his mind, though he couldn’t understand how. Something about the tactile nature of it, he assumes. He wants to tell her everything. Cut his guts out and splay them before her so she can see him. So she can fix him. Greta would know how to take out all the pain and piece him back together better. But would she, if she knew? Would she stay with a monster or let him bleed out alone? He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes tight, holding it in until his lungs ache and his body threatens to collapse. He counts to ten in his head, releasing his breath at the final digit. She could never solve his puzzle without every piece. She needs the whole truth.

“I did something…bad,” he says, opening his eyes to look down at his hands.

Greta rubs his hand with her thumb encouragingly, letting him take his time. Once he realizes he has the floor all to himself he continues.

“It was on my eighth birthday…”

“Wait,” Greta interrupts, “you were only a child?”

Brahms winces. Since going into the walls he never thought to acknowledge himself as anything _but_ a child. At least, not until Greta came along. Confronting it now causes his head to swim frantically. He grips her hand tight. He may have to gut himself after all.

“She was my best friend, Emily, the only one who came and…” he pauses, taking a deep breath to calm his now shaking form. 

All these years but he could never forget her. How she was the only one who could make him smile. The way she made him feel normal when everyone else told him he was a monster. But she was wrong. Tears fall freely from his eyes and down to the garden below. It cost her everything to believe in him.

“And I killed her,” he cries.

Greta’s eyes widen in horror. She pulls her hand away, but Brahms doesn’t notice and covers his face with his hands. It shouldn’t be so surprising to her, considering she watched him brutally murder Cole not more than a month ago, but imagining him as a child without all these years pent up within the walls…Something must be amiss.

“How?” she stutters.

He spins to face her, eyes bloodshot and teeth gritted into a snarl. Every part of him tenses, straining to keep him from falling apart, from remembering it all.

“What difference does it make? I’m a killer,” his words seethe out between his teeth, a hint of his child-like voice returning.

Spittle flies from his mouth onto Greta as he speaks, causing her to flinch away. He’s not wrong about being a murderer, that much is true. But surely he was justified in killing Cole. And the fact that he hasn’t hurt her or Mal yet indicates he has some understanding of right and wrong.

“It makes all the difference in the world,” Greta tries to soothe him, but keeps her distance.

He turns away again, burying his face once more.

“Please, Brahms. I’m here for you, you’re my friend”

He immediately stops shaking at Greta’s mention of their friendship. She’d heard this much and was still here. Maybe he could trust her, even if the memory of what he’d done makes his stomach feel like turning inside out and launching itself out his throat. _If anyone can help, she can,_ he reminds himself.

“We were playing together, in the woods,” he begins, resting his head in his hands, “running around and…I pushed her too hard. She fell and there was blood. So much blood. I didn’t know what to do. I just ran.”

Greta considers his words, automatically rubbing his back to comfort him. He tenses at her touch, but doesn’t move away. The soft breeze rustles the flowers in the garden and the trees of the nearby forest, caressing the tears now drying on Brahms’ expressionless face. The memories of that day were more difficult to dredge up than he planned, causing a bit of a break between him and reality for the time being.  
His blank stare worries Greta, but she knows that look. She saw the same face often in the mirror when she was with Cole. A way to escape from herself for a while, to stop feeling. There’s no telling when he’ll be back, but she is willing to wait. She’ll see him through. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says, almost commandingly, “and they were wrong to hurt you.” 

A flash crosses his eyes as her words hit, but there is no other sign that he heard her. She stops rubbing his back to hold his hand again. She’s said enough for now. Bearing guts takes patience on both sides. He accepts her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. They watch the trees bend and sway in the wind as a gentle rain begins to fall. Brahms lifts his face subconsciously, savoring the feel of rain on his skin and the smell of nature around them. Within moments the rain turns to a storm, sending them inside for cover. It will be a long night.

~

Hot chocolate and marshmallows await Mal when she arrives home from work. The three of them curl up on the sofa to watch a movie as the rain pounds against the windows. Layers of blankets are all the separates them from each other as they snuggle in tight. An unfortunate power surge ends movie night prematurely. Brahms’ suggestion of a board game instead is immediately shot down.

Mal hunts through the darkened kitchen for some candles. She moves to exit the kitchen in frustration, but instead bumps directly into Brahms.

“Here,” he leans over her to a nearby cupboard where the candles and matches hide. 

“I forgot, you live here,” she teases absentmindedly.

The return to the living room to find Greta tiding up, folding away the blankets. Mal holds a lit candle out for her, which she takes gratefully. She lights another for Brahms and hands it to him.

“No, thank you. I know my way around in the dark,” he says. 

“Alright edge lord,” Mal rolls her eyes.

Brahms laughs gruffly, slipping away into the walls for the night as Mal and Greta make their way to bed.

~

Greta pulls Mal into their shared bathroom, the one place she knows is inaccessible through the walls, and shuts the door behind them. 

“Oh! We doing this?” Mal asks, already pulling her sweater off.

“What? No, not right now,” Greta says, determined.

Mal sighs, fitting her arms back through her sweater sleeves and sits on the edge of the tub. By the look on Greta’s face she can tell something is off, but she wouldn’t have guessed it would be something so serious. _Surely nothing happened between them while I was out…_ she wonders. Greta paces back and forth in a rush, biting at her finger while lost in thought. Mal tenses. She’s never seen Greta this upset, not since Greta first told her about everything that happened with Cole. She stands and walks to Greta, gently pulling her into her arms.

“What’s wrong?” Mal asks, stroking Greta’s hair soothingly. 

Greta holds her tight. The stress of it all catching up with her. She and Brahms had a normal enough day together, but the weight of his past weighed heavier than she expected. That, and the realization that Mal never felt the need to mention this to her before.

“He told me about the fire, when he was a child,” Greta starts, “the one that gave him the scars.”

“And?”

“And,” she continues, “you never told me he murdered a little girl!”

Mal pulls back, arms askew as her face crinkles in confusion. She sputters out sounds of surprise, but fails to form any coherent thought. The shock of hearing Brahms has murdered before, and a child no less, strikes Mal to the core. But the pain of Greta accusing her of keeping secrets hurts far worse. Anger rushes through her blood as she thinks of how Brahms has managed to drive another wedge between them.

“How the hell would I know who he has and hasn’t murdered?” Mal raises her voice.

Greta’s eyes flare as she accepts Mal’s challenge, a fierce scowl spreading across her face.

“It was before they stashed him away in the walls, you would have known!” Greta accuses, jabbing her finger toward Mal.

“Yeah, me and rich bitch here definitely ran in the same circles when we were five,” Mal spits.

Greta groans, throwing her hands over her head and turning away. Mal extends to her full height, posturing with her hands on her hips and a glare burning into Greta. 

“How could you not have heard there had been a murder here,” Greta spins around, advancing.

“There’s never been a murder here!” Mal yells, exasperated. 

For a moment Greta backs down, eyes softening to a question. She hadn’t considered how secretive old money families could be. Or that Brahms could be crazier than she thought.

“He said he killed his friend, Emily?” she asks.

Mal meets her new tone, equally confused.

“Emily Cribbs?” Mal asks, scratching her forehead and darting her eyes up to think.

“He didn’t give a last name. Are there any other Emily’s?” Greta asks.

Mal sits back down on the edge of the tub, tapping her foot as she runs through names and memories in her head. Clicking her tongue she considers for another moment, then her eyes widen in horror.

“No, it was her but…Greta,” Mal starts, slowly turning to face Greta.

Greta rushes over to Mal and kneels before her. She grabs Mal’s hands painfully, absolutely starving for what she will say next. They frantically search each other’s eyes, Mal praying to make sense of why this all happened and Greta begging for the pieces to come together.

“Emily Cribbs isn’t dead,” Mal says.


	10. "By Fire, Be Purged"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angst, but this boy's growin'

With much difficulty, Mal guides a now frantic Greta into the kitchen. Gently, she sits Greta down while she goes about making a fresh kettle of tea. No doubt Brahms awoke when they clamored their way down the stairs and was now listening in from the walls. Mal still only lit one light, just in case, and turned the stove top off before the kettle could whistle. The two women continued discussing their predicament in hushed tones over their steaming cups of chamomile tea. 

“Why would they do this if he hadn’t even killed her?” Greta asks.

“She must have looked very dead…I don’t know, why would they do it at all?” Mal spouts. 

Greta rubs her temples, struggling to gather all possibilities into a neat bundle in her mind. Unfortunately none of it makes sense. A small boy accidently knocks his friend unconscious, runs home to his parents for help, and then they set fire to the house and stash him in the walls? Did they mean to kill him? Why wouldn’t the release him once they discovered the truth; were rich people really _this_ preoccupied with appearances?

“So, there’s no criminal record for him?” Greta asks.

“There’d be no reason for one, and it’s been years now. He can’t be held accountable for an accident that long ago,” Mal muses.

They take a few more sips of tea, considering all possible outcomes of this, odd, situation. He could feasibly be on his own now that he doesn’t have to worry about going to prison, but there’s no way he could actually manage to take care of himself. Does he even know how money works? Does the estate have enough he would never need to worry about it anyway?

“When the hell are his parents getting back, anyway? What if they try to kill him again?” Greta wonders aloud.

At the mention of a second death, Brahms bursts into the kitchen. His sudden entry surprises Greta, but Mal simply nodded toward him, not lifting her eyes from her drink. She figured he’d show up eventually and left a mug out for him to serve himself.

“They’re dead,” he says, throwing an opened letter onto the table.

Greta hastily reads the letter, openly horrified at the wording, “The girl is yours now.” She throws it down for Mal to read, earning an equally mortified response from her. They had all the answers they needed now; Brahms’ parents were definitely fucked up.

“Well, thanks for not taking advantage of me I guess,” Greta rolls her eyes.

“Oh yeah, you’re not my type,” Brahms shrugs.

“Isn’t that wonderful, you creep,” Mal seethes.

Brahms sits to pour himself a drink, ignoring the tension his entry caused. The low light saves Greta from developing too bad a headache as she sleepily navigates so much new information. Sensing Greta’s discomfort, Mal takes the reigns.

“Brahms,” she begins, sighing heavily as she forces herself to openly show concern for him, “Are you okay?”

He bites his lip. Hunching over the table he supports his weight on his elbows, holding his mug of tea tight. In the low light his eyes are barely visible, shrouded by scars and his thick, dark hair. He takes his time: reflecting on his life before, during, and after the walls, the coldness of his parents, the friendship of Mal and Greta, and now the possibility that he somehow isn’t a criminal.

“I don’t know,” he answers blankly. 

“That’s okay. It’s a lot at once,” Greta says.

“How much of our conversation did you hear?” Mal asks.

Before Brahms can answer Mal interrupts him again.

“Never mind. Emily is alive and you didn’t kill her, which means you’re a free man and we can get out of this godforsaken house.”

His mug falls from his hands, crashing onto the table and spilling its contents all over. He hadn’t heard _that_ part. Mal sighs, watching Brahms’ face contort from surprise, to fear, to joy, back fear, then concern. If his face pulled anymore Mal worried it would fall right off. 

“We’ll take our time, don’t worry,” Mal reassures him, awkwardly patting his shoulder.

“We’re here for you, Brahms. We aren’t leaving,” Greta chimes in.

He nods, standing his mug right side up. Fidgeting with the mouth of the mug he tries to understand each piece of Mal’s previous statement. Overwhelmed with emotion, he starts to drift off. This will take all of his brainpower to grasp. Mal and Greta continue consoling him, but he gives no sign of hearing them.  
_Emily survived and so did I. But would she want anything to do with me? What if my parents_ did _try to murder me? Will I have to leave now? I don’t want to meet other people…_

“Brahms?” Greta waves a hand in front of his face.

Finally he blinks. He darts his eyes angrily toward Greta, grumbling under his breath at her rudeness. He moves to leave, but Mal’s stern protests stop him.

“You’re not going anywhere until we all figure this out,” she says, pointing to his seat.

With a heavy sigh he crashes back into his seat, crossing his arms. Erratic thoughts bounce around his head making it impossible for him to focus on anything else, but he tries nonetheless.

“My store delivers the Cribb’s groceries weekly, I’ll go tomorrow to check in on Emily,” Mal starts.

Brahms shakes his head furiously and slams his fists onto the table, “No!”

Mal throws her hands into the air, frustrated. Greta shoots her a look, then turns to Brahms and gently grabs his hand.

“Use your words,” she coos.

“I hurt her, she can’t know I’m here,” he says, the words spill out of his mouth so fast they’re hardly audible. 

“Yeah, when you were eight,” Mal argues, “Besides, we need to start introducing you other people. Who better to start with than your best friend?”

“Don’t bring her here!” Brahms howls, bolting out of his chair so fast it falls over.

Before he can run to the secret panel, Mal slams against it to block him. They lock eyes, Brahms ready to fight and Mal refusing to back down.

“Brahms, just listen to us,” Mal pleads.

“No, you don’t know what you’re doing,” he insists, advancing on her and extending to his full height.

“And you do?” Mal retorts. 

His hands turn to white-knuckled fists as he tenses with rage. He would love nothing more than to toss Mal across the room and pummel her to death and return to his beloved walls. The truth of her words struck a chord, however, locking him in place. Whether he wants to admit it or not, he knows he needs their help. He has no choice but to trust them. With a guttural sigh he unclenches his fists, crossing his arms once more and returning to his normal hunch.

“Out with it,” he commands.

A sigh of relief loosens Mal’s body. Greta comes to her side and holds her hand for support.

“We don’t have a full plan yet, but,” Greta begins, “We can start by reuniting you with Emily.”

“We really think she would want to see you again,” Mal adds.

Brahms bites his lip. At least this he can digest. For decades he punished himself within the walls. How many nights he had wished the fire had finished him off, wishing for the pain of what he had done to end. But, now she’s alive. He had been a good boy after all. Darkness clouds his eyes as a far worse realization enters his mind. He glares toward the two women, hatred burning in his gaze.

“Why did Mummy and Daddy keep me hidden?”

His voice breaks as he finishes the sentence. Greta squeezes Mal’s hand as they watch his eyes grow darker. A moment passes as he waits for…something. He knows they can’t answer him. His parents left no answers behind either. “May God forgive us,” his mother wrote.

“For what?” he asks aloud, looking through them now.

A deep sorrow lies just beneath the surface of his eyes, nearly unreadable through the waves of pure terror and hatred. He reaches up to touch the right side of his face, running his fingers down his scars.

Without another word, Brahms exits the kitchen. Holding their breath, Greta and Mal move to watch him walk up the stairs in a trance. As he makes his way up they decide to keep him in their line of sight, slowly following behind from a distance.  
Brahms stops before the large portrait of his family; depicting much younger versions of his parents and him as only a little boy. He stares at the painting for a moment then, with a loud grunt, removes the large object from the wall to carry back downstairs in his arms. Mal and Greta jump aside as he continues walking, not even noticing them.  
With a loud crack he snaps the painting in half over the couch. Splinters scatter across the room and a few imbed themselves into his flesh as he continues snapping the frame apart. Only quiet grunts of exertion escape his lungs as he throws piece after piece into the fireplace. Before he can throw the entire desecrated painting in Greta runs up to hold him back.

“Wait, it’s very flammable,” she warns, “A little at a time.”

He stares at her blankly, but does as she says. Lighting the fire, he watches the flames devour the frame. His tall, powerful form looming over the fireplace, light reflecting in his shadowed eyes and illuminating his scars, looks as if it could be pulled directly from a horror movie. He tosses in handfuls of the painting, waiting for each one to finish its initial burst of flames before adding more.

The three of them stand in the now dimly lit room, the fire nothing but scatterings of embers. Brahms heaves a sigh, turning to face the two women. 

“I’m ready,” he says.

He doesn’t wait for their reaction before walking to another secret panel and returning to the wall. Greta and Mal look at each other, unsure of how to react.

“I guess I’ll talk to Emily,” Mal says.

Greta nods. Arm in arm they make their way to their bedroom for the night. Hopefully Brahms will be ready. The journey to socialization begins tomorrow, and a man with his temper and strength has no room for mistakes.


	11. Play Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll be taking a break for a few days, next update on either thursday or friday. sorry for prolonging so much until the /actual/ meeting of emily and brahms. i just cant not do this in script format so y'all gonna have to live with scene-by-scene. next chapter tho, then it's all outdoors from here

Much to Mal’s surprise, Emily couldn’t have been happier to hear that her childhood friend was alive. She reacted as if she’d always known, somewhere deep in her soul, that he wasn’t really gone.

“His parents were always so dramatic,” Emily chuckles.

The drive from the Cribbs’ estate back to Heelshire Manor was a long one. Weaving through the beautiful Northern England countryside. After the incident over twenty years ago, the Cribbs family opted to live out of their country estate, far from the source of Emily’s trauma and those dreadfully morose Heelshires. While driving, Mal would sneak glances at Emily. Everything about her was perfectly normal: long ginger hair, delicate skin, a lean, feminine frame, and striking blues eyes. Well, perhaps most striking was her left eye. The force of her fall while so young caused it to lose its strength, struggling to follow orders and always twitching away from its desired focal point. “In the mornings,” she complained, “it takes a full thirty minutes for it to rotate down from staring at my skull to its proper place.” It only added to her charm, especially when she smiled with those rosy cheeks and dimples. 

As they park in the driveway, Emily scans the outside of the large, stone manor. A certain dread seizes hold of her breath. So many years had passed since her last visit, and to think what happened to Brahms; how he must have lived in agony for so long. Mal had taken the liberty to explain the situation on the drive, which only served to worsen Emily’s nerves. If these two women decided to stay with him he can’t be that bad, she thinks, but she knew what his family was capable of. Mal turns the car off, stopping to check in with Emily before opening the door.

“Need a second?” she asks.

Emily looks to the foreboding front door then back to Mal, she swallows painfully before speaking.

“Is he…okay?” Emily asks, worry clouding her eyes.

Mal shuffles in her seat, puttering sighs as she finds a way to explain Brahms’ current state.

“He’s been through a lot, to say the least,” Mal starts, “but I think he’s as well-adapted as one could expect.”

Emily nods slightly, finally exiting the car with her clutch in hand.

~

While Mal is off collecting Emily, Greta decides its time for Brahms to really nail down his manners. His hygiene could use some work as well…  
After breakfast, Greta stops from reentering the walls. She struggles in vain to overpower him, shoving uselessly against his stomach, while he stands unmoved and staring at her quizzically. 

“Use your words, Greta,” he coos, mimicking the voice she often uses to calm him.

“No sulking in the walls today, we’re getting you cleaned up,” Greta stamps her foot, putting her hands on her hips defiantly. 

Brahms smiles at her display. He’s enjoyed showering whenever he pleases since coming out of the walls, but shaving and haircuts were still a nightmare. They had yet to get him into a pair of shoes either, even when venturing outside. Some “Brahms Time” may not be such a bad idea, especially if it gives him a chance to spend more time with Greta, he figures. 

“Make me,” he smirks.

Greta pulls out a squirt bottle and squeezes, shooting a jet stream of cold water directly into his face. He gasps in a panicked scream, immediately jumping away and hunching into a ball.

“What the hell?” he yells.

“Let’s go,” she commands, “You’re going to shower and you _will_ trim that mangy beard. I’ll find you a decent outfit.” 

Greta prods him up to the bathroom, tossing him a towel when they arrive than shutting the door, leaving him to his own devices. With a heavy sigh, Brahms begins his shaving routine. She trusts him on his own for once; he’d hate to lose that progress.

With surprising ease, Greta makes her way through the walls to Brahms’ room. Greta discovers that, left to his own devices with no warning, Brahms lives the life of an absolute animal. Clothes strewn about and dirty dishes lying around. Every time she visits she finds new things she never noticed before, allowing her to learn more about him piece by piece. She fights the urge to tidy up, rummaging through his dresser instead. Not much is left within it besides a few pairs of socks. With a heavy sigh, she sets about his room, hunting for something at least somewhat clean and free of body odor for him to wear. She pulls together a decent enough outfit: button-up, slacks, and sweater. But it’s so formal…Greta shakes her head. 

“He’ll be nervous enough, he shouldn’t be uncomfortable too,” she tsks.

She grabs his favorite pair of sweat pants, a fresh tank top, and his old cardigan and makes her way down to the laundry room. 

As the spin cycle comes to an end, Greta swaps the clothes to the dryer and jumps when she sees Brahms standing in the doorway. He’s mostly dried off now, but holds the towel like a skirt over his lower body. Despite trimming his beard he appears even hairy than usual, his wet body hair stark against his pale skin and multitude of scars. 

“I waited in the bathroom,” he starts, “but you never brought me new clothes.”

“It’s a surprise,” Greta smiles awkwardly, pointing to the dryer.

“I’ll go wait in my room then,” he turns on his heel quickly, knowing she’ll try to stop him.

“I don’t think so, you are not going back into the walls and getting all filthy again,” she scolds.

He rolls his eyes as she guides him to the living room, sitting him down on the sofa. 

“Watch tv or something, it won’t be too long,” she says.

He crosses his arms, standing up again. Certainly, he’s nervous to see his friend he thought he murdered all those years ago, but why in the world would Greta be overthinking it more than him? The only way to find out, he smirks, is to bother her until she snaps.

“I don’t want too,” he purses his lips.

“Then find something else to do, it’s your house,” she responds.

“Play with me,” he closes the distance between them.

Greta’s eyes widen in fear, but immediately switches to a bemused glare. She quickly sprays his face with the squirt bottle she’d looped through her back pocket, unbeknownst to Brahms.

“Clean up that attitude,” she teases.

He lurches away, rubbing the water from his face and cursing under his breath.

“I was joking,” he huffs.

Greta sits on the couch and he joins her. She resumes a show they’d been watching over the past few nights.

“You’re not in a position to make jokes like that,” she scolds, punching at his arm lightly, “You forget how big you are.”

Brahms sighs, moving around and taking stock of his large form. Perhaps he did underestimate the distance between teasing and threatening. Maybe he was underestimating the whole situation…


End file.
